CHAPTER 1 — Ashes and Silence
That night, the sky was red.
Not the red of sunset. Not the red of dawn.
The red of blood.
Zhen Mingye stood in the middle of ruins that only a few hours ago he still called home. Seven years of his life. Seven years filled with sound — his mother's laughter in the kitchen, his father's voice teaching him his first stance, Uncle Ruo's chatter that never seemed to stop.
Now everything was silent.
He stepped forward slowly. His bare feet pressed into the ashes that were still warm. Each step left a small mark — the only trace of life remaining in this place.
In the left corner, a dining table still stood halfway — the table where every morning his mother always placed a bowl of warm soup for him. Now only half of it remained. The burn marks were uneven, as if even the fire had hesitated to erase it completely.
Zhen Mingye stopped in front of it.
His hand touched the remaining edge of the table. It was still slightly warm.
Mother.
Just that one word. Yet his chest suddenly felt as if it had been filled with stones — heavy, suffocating, pressing from within with no way to release it.
He wanted to scream.
But no sound came out.
He wanted to cry.
But his eyes felt dry — as if even his tears didn't know how to react to a loss this great.
His steps faltered when he passed the backyard. There, he saw it — a hand reaching out from beneath the collapsed wooden beams. Small. Familiar.
With the blue jade bracelet that always shimmered even on the darkest nights.
The bracelet he himself had chosen for his mother a year ago at the autumn market.
"Mother, this one is nice!"
"Hm? But it's expensive, Mingye..."
"It's okay! Mingye saved up!"
He remembered his mother laughing — a warm laugh that always made her eyes curve like crescent moons.
Zhen Mingye knelt down.
His hands trembled as he touched those cold fingers. He held them tightly. As if gripping hard enough could change something. As if warmth from his hands could transfer to hers.
But nothing changed.
Cold remained cold.
For the first time that night — something at the corner of his eye burned. One drop. Only one. Falling onto the back of his mother's cold hand.
Then he stood up.
Slowly releasing that grip.
And he walked away — because something inside him whispered with a voice that felt unfamiliar, yet ancient:
Crying will not bring them back
.
But surviving… might avenge them.
Before leaving, something faintly glimmered among the ashes.
He crouched down and picked it up with his small trembling fingers.
An emblem. Black metal with a small dragon engraved along its edge, and a single character in the center —
He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know who it belonged to.
But for some reason, his hand gripped it tightly.
And did not let go.
Night grew darker as he reached the edge of the forest. His body was small, thin, covered in ash, with a single tear already dried.
He sat on the root of a large tree. Hugging his knees. Staring at the sky that slowly changed from red to black.
And in the silence of that night, Zhen Mingye made a decision — not with anger, not with tears.
But with a coldness that slowly replaced everything that had once been warm inside him.
I will remember this night.
Forever.